


Best Way to Say Goodbye

by amoama



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: M/M, Mexico, Post Season 7
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-08
Updated: 2017-03-08
Packaged: 2018-10-01 07:43:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 935
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10184324
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/amoama/pseuds/amoama
Summary: A new life in Mexico for Mickey and before too long, a visitor, to teach him to swim.





	

Alone, he cries all the way to Tampico. Retching from his gut, emptying his lungs. He doesn’t really know where he’s driving, why he’s driving. He can’t remember why he got in the car. He sleeps there, shivering in the driver’s seat, parked on the edge of the city, by the sea, Mexico’s gulf yawning out beside him where Ian should be. 

He hasn’t a clue what to do. His plan was Ian. He thought Ian would have a plan for the rest. He stares at Ian’s money on the dashboard, all his fucking savings. Mickey’s so fucking grateful to have it, knows he needs it. But he hates it without Ian here to spend it with, it’s all he can do not to throw the fucking money into the sea. 

It rips him up how bad he wants Ian to be here and how glad he is that he said no. Ian has put himself back together, Mickey can’t be the one that gets him fucked up again. The relief of that makes him scream. He’s going to go out of his fucking mind with grief over this. Mickey was there for every second of the descent, for every manic second, for every day Ian couldn’t open his eyes, couldn’t turn over in the bed, couldn’t acknowledge Mickey’s arms around him. Mickey was there. It hurt and it hurt and it hurt and Mickey let that pain flay him alive, opened himself up to this costly, costly, love. He stayed for that. And now Ian has found a way to balance himself out, and there’s somehow no room for Mickey on those scales. His personal pain, his profound relief beat side by side in his chest. 

He stays by the coast. Remembers the ending to Shawshank, a movie those sadistic prison guards fucking loved showing, wonders how many dickwad cons are wandering around Mexico trying to remember the name of that fucking beach. He decides to man the fuck up and find something to fucking do. 

He loses the wig but he stays cross-dressed for a while. It’s better not quite being himself. A new Mickey, who’s the same, but protected. He likes the lipstick and the frills. He wages war on his stubble. He likes the questioning stares and the excuse to flip people off when they do. There’s a freedom here he hasn’t known before. 

He works at a beach bar serving wine to women recovering from lipo, or hiding out waiting for their botoxed faces to deflate. He serves drugs and other shit under the table but he keeps his head down, follows the barkeeper's lead. For once, he doesn’t want trouble. 

He moves into an abandoned hotel suite, penthouse. It’s some kind of homeless shelter for addicts downstairs but the top floor is all his. There isn’t any water but everything else works a treat. He pisses off the balcony every night before bed, says kumbaya to the moon. The hot air is better than prison.  
In the ruins of the lobby gift shop he finds a postcard with a picture of the hotel. He addresses it, and writes “Ian” on the left-hand side. Then he gets stuck. What the fuck does he have to say that Ian doesn’t already know? He looks out at the sea from his balcony, then he writes, “I don’t know how to fucking swim.” He doesn’t sign it. He sends it and thinks, yes, this is better than prison. 

In May, he gets a visit. A reward for good behavior, he supposes. “So you need a swimming instructor?” Ian teases. 

“Like fuck I do,” Mickey tells him, but his smile is stupid wide, because his partner is here. 

Ian holds him up in the water and orders him to paddle. He feels like a dick as Ian just laughs and laughs. They nearly drown each other fighting in the waves. 

“Lucky I took the week,” Ian comments, “this could take a while.” Mickey dips back under the water, invites Ian’s mouth on his. 

This peace, it’s nothing they’ve known before, it’s outside time, a holiday. He doesn’t have to ask, did you miss me? Did you think about me? Nor does Ian. Everything between them is as clear as the water that surrounds them. Mickey doesn’t know how he would ever begin getting used to it. It’s just so good. Like he’s known, for a long time now, that it could be. 

He needs a moment, to adjust to that, to marvel at how they’ve made it to this place. They fold around each other, careless of each other’s space. Ian holds himself so tall now, Mickey feels light headed with looking up at him. He reaches for him over and over and Ian never hesitates to gather him in. Their kisses are pure energy, a raging life force all of their own. Mickey gorges himself, relieving his parched soul, storing each taste away for the desert to come. 

Then Ian’s gone again. His kisses a haunting presence on the back of Mickey’s neck. 

He’s raw again. The pain is fierce, like always. But, this time he thinks, how good it was. How free, free, free. 

Mickey knows, with a surety that only comes with peace: he’ll be back, my lover, my skin, he’ll come back. Mickey tried to pay him back some of the money but Ian said no, with a quiet smile, said, “Buy me a plane ticket.” They have a plan for August.

So it doesn’t feel quite so much like waiting, not this time. Not treading water, but floating. Anticipating.


End file.
